A Widow in Winter
by JayRain
Summary: They only have brief moments: secret trysts in the cold between missions that he never remembers. But it makes him feel human and makes her think that maybe she could be more than a Black Widow.


_Author's Note: Written and posted on AO3 for raineraine, as a secret Santa gift. The more WinterWidow I write the more I enjoy them..._

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 _A Widow In Winter_

Natasha feels everything, but her great talent lies in making it appear that she feels nothing. So she stands in the snow with the cold seeping into her fur lined boots and does not shift her weight to get feeling back into her numb toes. Jack frost nips her nose, as the old song says, and she doesn't sniffle. Fingers of frigid fog trail along her face and neck and find their way in between the zipper teeth on her jacket and she doesn't shiver. She feels everything, but she waits, as still and silent as the spider for which she is named.

Her jacket, boots, and gloves are all snow white. A white cap covers her trademark flame-red hair, the one thing the Red Room did not take from her. Her skin is winter-pale, and standing at the edge of the snow field, she blends in. Much like a snowy hare: all white and fur, and her heart thudding. But she's never been fragile, and she's never been prey. She's a predator, and her eyes scan the endless white and gray. The icy air makes her tears crystallize and she does not squint.

The fresh powder muffles his step, but she hears it anyway. She doesn't turn. "I know you're there."

Two long, silent strides and he's beside her. "Of course you do. You're the only one who knows I'm not a ghost."

She glances over and her pounding heart skips a beat. She's had lovers, but never someone she loves. He might come close, if they were different people living in a different place and a different time. "My definition of reality isn't always reliable," she tells him, letting her breath out in a measured exhalation.

"You're freezing," he tells her. He pulls her toward him and she lets him do it. They are here of their own free will, a miracle in and of itself. Neither can force the other to do anything. They're both too well trained for that, too highly aware of the other's fighting styles. He's not fighting her now, and that grip that can snap necks and rend metal is gentle on her shoulders. His metal hand is cold and it seeps through her coat and into her shoulder. Now she shivers, and melts into him.

His arm is cold, but the rest of him is a furnace, his super-soldier metabolism burning hot through his tactical gear and into her. She's small compared to him, and folds into his embrace. Natasha closes her eyes for a moment and inhales deeply. He smells like gunpowder and leather and sweat. "It's worth it," she murmurs. His heart pounds, loud in the snowy quiet.

"We could run away together," he offers. His hand-his real hand, that flesh and blood and bone hand that can do things to her that no other hands can- tugs back her fur-lined hood.

"We can't and you know it." The thought is so tempting; but the world isn't big enough for them to hide in, not so long as the people who made them are still out there.

"We could try." He pulls the white wool hat off and her red curls tumble down into her face.

"They'd kill you before they let you go." _And I can't let them kill you for me._

"It would be worth it. Probably the most worthwhile thing I've ever done," he tells her. His hand strokes her hair and his fingertips brush against her cheek so softly. "You make me human, Natasha. You make me feel truly alive, and not like some machine."

She presses up against him more closely. He wraps his arms around her and bends his head down. His brown hair has grown out since the last time they were able to meet like this: just the briefest of trysts between missions. Tendrils of his hair tickle her cheek and she looks up into his steel gray-blue eyes. There is life and recognition there and it makes her breath catch in her throat. The last time they met, he shot her. She doesn't bring that up. She forgives him for doing his job, same as she was.

"Nat," he breathes, and then his lips are on hers. His scruff scrapes her cold skin raw, and then Natasha _lets_ herself feel everything. These moments are rare and she lives in them, because she can't take them with her. He pours everything of himself into the kiss because he won't remember this, won't remember her after today, not until they fight again, not until he's let off his leash just long enough to regain an idea of who she is.

She digs her fingers into his shoulders and inhales deeply. The cold cuts into her sinuses and takes her breath away. Between the cold and his kiss she can't breathe. She's drowning in snow and winter and if she died now she would be at peace with it, because he was there with her.

At last she pulls back and stares up into his eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his gaze is sad. "You'll catch hell if you don't make the rendezvous."

"I'll catch hell no matter what," he says, resignation heavy in his voice. "Please?" he asks once more, voice soft as a winter wind. "Just you and me. We could do it…"

Could they? Natasha rests her forehead against his chest. He brushes her hair back behind her ear. Maybe they could. They're both trained enough to outrun anyone or anything. But does she want to? Or is she truly a Black Widow, incapable of love and only able to send her mate to his doom time and time again?

"Go, _Soldat,"_ she tells him and he stiffens at the title. "They'll be out for you soon. They'll be out for me, too," she adds with a sad, crooked smile. She pulls off one glove and rests her hand on his cheek, soaking in his warmth. " _Dasvidaniya, Soldat."_

She pulls her glove on and pulls the hat and hood over her flame-red hair. She meets his gaze one last time before turning her back on him and running lightly over the snow and into the forest behind them. She doesn't turn to see if he's watching her, and she knows he's not stupid enough to follow her. She runs until the cold slices up her lungs and then she leans against a tree in the fading day and feels everything: the cold, the ice, and the loss. If she makes him feel like more than a soldier, he makes her feel like more than a Black Widow, incapable of anything more than calculating and spinning webs of secrets and lies and death.

Natasha wipes her eyes and nose and takes a deep, icy breath to steady herself. She licks her lips and tastes the last of his kiss there. They'll meet again, of that she is certain.


End file.
